Rise
by soul-of-spades
Summary: Ten years after the DWMA falls to a rogue witch, Spartoi is scattered, wounded and considered fallen by its enemies. In these harsh times, a boy lives a lie, a girl strives to save her family, and another boy has big shoes to fill. Now, the witch is slowly closing in on what's left of the DWMA resistance. Will the children of Spartoi be up to the task?
1. the boy who lives a lie

**the boy who lives a lie**

* * *

He watches the factory from across the street, utterly conflicted. The slip of paper in his pocket burns the denim with a riddle he isn't so sure he has authorization to mess with. He knows where his loyalties lie, _who_ his soul answers to. Will his master approve of this?

He sets his teeth in a scowl.

No, she will not approve. She'll have him in remedial for months—maybe even _years_ —if she catches wind of this...this _treachery_. Hell, he can get time in the Pit if she thinks the shoe fits.

He shudders.

"Shit," he grunts under his breath. Despite all the alarms sounding off in his head, telling him _no_ , a quiet voice in the back of his mind tells him he needs to do this. Needs to get rid of the blurs and the static fogging his head, making it hard to remember the _before_ the man keeps talking about.

He _has_ to do this.

After his deliberation, he smoothly slips off the edge of the roof—his temporary hot seat for the past hour—and yelps when he doesn't stick the landing. He makes quick work of his hands when he tries to stop the tumble, skidding them against the gravel. He swears under his breath.

"Just my luck," he seethes. His hands spurt trickles of red as specks of gravel sink into his palms. To make matters worse, his jeans tear open at the knees. They're his favorite pair. "Can't catch a break to save my life."

He stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out the note, hoping the message will sink into his resolve (or what he has left of it).

 _Find the girl with the star tattoo. She remembers._

At the bottom, a series of numbers lead him here. Coordinates to the factory he now stands a breath away from. _She remembers_ , he thinks. He then thinks of the man in the cell, claiming to be feeding him the stone cold truth (or a bucket of lies). Claiming to _know_ him. That man _remembers_ , whereas he's left in the dark alone at his master's beck and call. No questions. No answers. Just the way his master likes it.

His hand stills in front of the entranceway, shaking.

It bothers him that he has so willingly fallen into this...what? _Trap? Revelation?_ He doesn't know what to call it, but he does know it's worthy of his hesitation. Eventually he musters up the courage to press forward and when the door grates open against the metal floor, his throat itches with a dryness he's never known before. He steps inside and searches the wall for a switch. When he finds it, he balks at what's brought to light.

Nothing. It's empty aside from some old equipment and crates lying around. Not a single living soul in sight. Just a cesspool of rusted iron and vermin.

He kicks one of the crates with his boot. "You have got to be _fucking_ _kidding me_!" So close, yet so far. He lets his guard down for one second and his name is run through the gutter, tainted by his naivety. He's a fool for believing in the prisoner's lies, for actually thinking there's something he needs to remember. There's nothing to remember. He _knows_ who he is, and shame on him for ever thinking otherwise.

He spares the shattered mirror in the corner a glance. Muddy brown hair and eyes to match. Dull, just another face in the crowd, and a thousand leagues short of the extraordinary. But it's him, right?

" _Her illusions are getting to your head, kid. Look harder."_

A flash of green catches his eye and he blinks at how bright it is. It's gone in a heartbeat, lingering only for a moment to jump past the static and the blurs, and he quickly finds himself alone with his reflection again. A boring, tasteless portrait of who he knows he is. If he squints, he swears it's blurred at the edges, but then he thinks it's just all in his head and leaves it at that.

"Such an idiot," he grumbles, facing away from the mirror. He wants to punch the man in the jaw, to put a bullet between his eyes. Though before he can toy with that gory fantasy in his head, something catches his eye. Scratches in the metal flooring to his left, except not scratches, _words._ A message carved into metal. He reads the words carefully and a breath hitches in his throat.

 _Wait for me, Daddy. I'm coming._

 _-Your Little Star_

* * *

"She's your daughter," he says flatly, staring at the man rotting in chains behind bars. He has an appearance like no other: battle scars, wild blue hair, and a star tattoo on his shoulder. The scars tell of a history of violence, a warrior with a lot of fight in his blood. The wild hair is an anomaly to him—is the blue natural? The star tattoo is the dead giveaway, the hint that slipped his mind before.

A crazed grin splits the man's lips. "Ding, ding, ding. Give the boy a prize."

"No games," he spits, gripping the bars. "I want answers."

"And you'll get them when you're ready."

"I am ready."

The prisoner gives him a quick once over and scoffs. "You're full of shit."

He grits his teeth. "Why have me look for your daughter, huh? What's so special about her?"

"Well, she's kinda my kid," he drawls. "Fucked a beautiful woman and she popped out nine months later. You know the drill." He stops. "The witch ever teach you 'bout the birds and the bees? Because I sure as hell ain't giving you _the talk_."

The bars start to rattle in his grip and he ignores the red swelling in his cheeks. " _BlackStar._ "

The man chuckles. "Finally, some formality. You know the name of the great me." His grin is disgustingly smug. "How's it feel to say it?"

"Tastes like piss in my mouth."

"See? That's why you're not ready."

He groans and bangs his head against the bars, his grip now slack. "Please." He's begging now. How pathetic. "Give me something, or you're the one full of shit. How can I trust you?"

BlackStar nods his head slowly, eyeing him like a boy. A boy that knows nothing of the world around him. But he's not a boy, he's a _man._

"You went out there looking for her," he said, still looking at him like a pacifier is dangling from his lips. "Which tells me you're not a complete lost cause."

" _Gee_ , thanks." The fantasy of punching BlackStar's block off seems more and more enticing with each word that falls out of his big mouth. "Doesn't mean I owe you anything. Especially not my trust."

"But here you are. Down in the dungeons with me. In the _restricted_ area, right?" BlackStar points to the sign on the wall behind him and he gulps. "And giving a damn about what I have to say."

"I don't give a damn about what you have to say, you...you!"

"Think about it, kid," BlackStar cuts him off before he has the chance to label him with a curse. "Why are you _humoring_ me or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Think."

His palms are sweaty and his throat is dry again, choking on desert sand. He doesn't have an answer. He needs an answer. _Why doesn't he have an answer?_

"Shit, if you think any harder your brain will blow chunks."

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Something has to give. He has to put two and two together. He needs to know the _why_ so he can wipe the smirk off that shithead's face.

"No shit. I can see the smoke pouring out of your ears. This ain't rocket science, kid."

He can't think straight. Not here, anyway. The urge to march into the cell with a .22 in his hand is strong and unrelenting, clouding his head, so he settles on a subject change. "She was there."

At that, BlackStar loses the snark. "You saw her?" The vulnerability leaking in his voice doesn't match the scars marring his skin.

"No, but I know she was there. Left you a note."

BlackStar lurches against the chains. "What did she say?"

Power. He has power over him now. For once in his life, he has the answers. The ball is in his court. He grins. "I don't exactly kiss and tell. You need to _give_ to _receive_."

BlackStar jerks forward and the chains dig into his skin. Not even a wince. The blood drips from his fingertips, creating a small puddle at his feet, but he acts like it has no effect. No pain, no gain.

"Don't pull that bullshit on me," BlackStar snarls. "Give me the message."

"Only if you give me answers. I'm _ready_ ," he stresses. "Tell me what you think you know about me. _Tell me_." A bead of sweat drips over his temple as he squares his jaw and clenches his fists. Answers. That's all he wants.

"It's too early. Give it some time, kid."

"Stop calling me that!" He snaps, and his body trembles. "I'm not a boy. I'm a _man_ , and I deserve some answers!"

BlackStar shakes his head. "You're only 14, Shane."

"I—wait, how did you know that?" The way BlackStar says his name sounds so natural and so familiar, likes he's heard it hundreds of times. It rings in his ears, pulsating. The static in his head is overwhelming as he takes a step back from the cell. "I never told you that."

"Like I said, I _know you."_

Shane takes his head in his hands. "No, you're wrong. I don't know you, you don't know me. We're strangers."

"Shane, c'mon. You gotta remember."

"There's nothing to remember," he says, eyes sparking with the resolve he's been lacking as of late. Answers will not bring him closure if there's no truth behind them. BlackStar's credibility is touch and go, and he's starting to think against it. He needs to start putting more faith in himself. "I know who I am."

"Do you?"

Shane turns on his heels and marches down the dark corridor, leaving the prisoner in his wake. There's nothing more to say. Better to leave things alone than to let the man get a rise out of him, to make him question _everything_ again.

"Stubborn as hell like your mother," BlackStar mumbles. "And loyal like your old man, but to the _wrong_ people. What a fucking mess you turned out to be."

The prisoner is just out of earshot, so his words slur into nonsense in Shane's ears. He shakes his head and slowly ascends the cobblestone steps. He's due to check in with his master soon, so he's decidedly done meddling here with the prisoner. No more useless games and self-doubt. BlackStar is full of shit, he _needs_ to accept that.

"See you some time tomorrow?" BlackStar shouts, and his voice echoes up the staircase. "I want that message, you know!"

Shane stops halfway up the steps and grinds his teeth. He knows the answer to BlackStar's question, but it'll irk him too much to speak it aloud. The fool in chains doesn't need to be any more smug than he already is.

"I'll take that as a definite maybe?" Shane can almost imagine the smirk etching into the joker's face right now. _Almost_.

He reaches the top of the staircase and slams the door behind him, pretending like he doesn't hear the obnoxious cackling from below.

* * *

"You're late, Shane."

He cringes at how his name drips from her lips like poison. She sounds angry, _furious_ even. Has she been keeping close tabs on him? Does she know about his secret trips to the dungeon? He bites his lip. If so, he can rightfully declare himself a dead man walking.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he drops to one knee and bows his head to pay his respects. "It won't happen again."

"That it won't." The raven— _Carlyle_ , the little prick—caws at him from atop her left shoulder. The bird enjoys teasing him relentlessly, especially when it knows he's upset their master. "For being tardy, I've extended your sparring session."

At this, he perks up. "Extended?"

"Yes. Another hour. Oh," she tacks on with a _pop._ "And I've changed your opponent."

"May I ask who my opponent is now?" He asks, eyeing her warily. The feathers standing at attention around her collar are frazzled, her robe melting into a pool of black at her feet. Not inviting whatsoever. His master isn't privy to forgiveness—even if his only known crime is a matter of being late. He must expect the worse.

"That'll be me," a voice slurs, and Shane feels a lump starting to clog his throat. He turns to face the man with the dual swords—the devil himself in this castle, hair dyed red and prickling up like pitchforks. Shane feels his soul rattle with uncertainty, unwilling to call it fear.

"I hope you've been preparing for this," his master whispers in his ear. She drops a sword in his hands and the end of it clangs against the floor before he can find his grip. It's _heavy_. "It'll weigh heavily upon your soul if you've neglected to do so." The glint in her eyes tells him what he already knows.

This is punishment.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun!" His opponent—Darius, the father of all _pricks—_ sing-songs.

Shane looks to his master as he raises his sword. Punishment, yes, but does she know? The way she swings a pocket watch from her finger-like talons sends him a clear message.

With a loud battle cry, Darius starts his charge. His arms and swords face behind him, cutting through the very air.

This is punishment for being _late._

Darius shoots past him and lands a blow to his thigh. He sets his teeth and bears it the best he can without crying out.

Shane hates to think what his master will do if she finds him in the dungeon consulting with BlackStar.

Another charge, another cut, and he falls to his knees and plants his sword into the floor.

He'll be killed, brought back, and killed again.

"Had enough, already?" Darius taunts. "I've barely even worked up a sweat."

Shane uses his sword to get back on his feet. "You're never enough," he spits, and the next couple hours render him useless as Darius knocks him around like a rag doll.

* * *

Everything hurts. His body, his mind, his _soul_. It all aches. He lays in his cot and thinks of how _stupid_ he is to have egged Darius on.

" _A sound soul dwells within a sound mind, and a sound body."_

His head shoots up, and he groans at the pain laced into the action. He risks a glance at the bandage on his hip and sees the splotch of red. Bleeding again. Just his luck. But...that _voice_. It sounds so familiar, so inviting, so full of love. He _knows_ it, but he can't match the face with the voice. Everything's so blurry.

The door swings open and he flinches. "Shane. Roll up your sleeves."

His master's voice lacks the loving touch the other has exponentially. She marches into his room—barren aside from the cot and a mirror—and grabs his arm before he has the chance to do as she says. She has no patience for him right now. Carlyle caws in his ear and he bites back a sneer.

"Just more tonic," she says, tearing his sleeve. "Nothing you're not already accustomed to."

"Yes, my lady." He listens because he has to, because she is his master. It's a relationship much like the weapon and meister partnership from years past, but nothing is set equally. He and his master are not equals. He is the mud caking the bottoms of her shoes.

"Keep still, boy."

He doesn't know why he shakes still, afraid of a simple needle. This injection is routine before he goes to bed. It's nothing new to him, but he shakes and his master hates it. She's sure to reprimand him soon. As if to spite him even more, Carlyle hops on the cot and starts picking at his bandages.

"H-Hey, stop that," he warns. He then yelps when his master prods a nail into one of the cuts on his hip. She treasures the bird—it's her precious little ' _Lyle_. The bird is ranked higher than him on the totem pole, and he's just insulted it right in front of her. Bad move on his part.

"Mind your place," she whispers, and he grows deathly still. He knows better than to reply and bites his tongue. When she starts searching for a vein, letting him off the hook if only for a moment, he notices something different. The vial. The tonic inside isn't clear like usual. In fact, it looks dark and thick enough to be tar. He holds his breath as the needle pricks his skin, and the contents slowly drain into his bloodstream. He feels nauseous.

"There. All done." She slips the needle out of his arm and tosses it in the trash without a second thought. "Now that wasn't so bad. Right?"

He can't speak coherently anymore. The sludge in his veins is making his head spin. Walls are swirling, faces are morphing, the bird's caws sound like somebody screaming. He wants the world to stop spinning. He wants it all to _stop_.

"Sleep tight. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow." She walks to the door and Carlyle flies off the bed and lands on her shoulder—the whole scene flashes before him like a panoramic. It hurts his eyes.

"L-Lady Raven," he manages, and his voice sounds so deep and gravely. It's not him speaking, it's someone else. An _imposter_.

"Yes?"

Everything starts to burn.

"M-My blood's boiling," he rasps, clutching his arm. Something is lighting a fire in his blood and erupting against his skin. His skin is crawling with _fire_.

His master's smile is coy, warping around her face in his twisted vision. "Good," she says, and that's the end of it. The door clicks shut behind her and he's left alone.

" _A sound soul dwells within a sound mind, and a sound body."_

His soul, mind, and body are not _sound_. His soul pulsates in his chest and winces at the incoming flames. His mind is not itself, twisted in ways he can't fathom because he can't _think_. His body is beaten from his fight with Darius, and the blood beneath his skin hisses like a roaring flame. Nothing about him is _sound_ , but the voice doesn't stop. The same words, over and over again. It's a mantra stuck on repeat in his head. Again and again. _Sound soul, sound mind, sound body_. The voice doesn't sound so sweet anymore—it now reeks of foulness, like the words of a demon. A little demon. Red, horns, tailored suite. It dances to a horrible beat. _Sound soul, sound mind, sound body_. It grins and snaps its fingers at him.

"S-Stop!"

 _Click_. No voice, no demon, no burning. It's all gone without a trace. He's left alone in his cot and his mind swears a brief oath of silence. He doesn't hear anything, nothing but his own deep breathing. His hair sticks to his forehead, slick with sweat. His shirt is soaked.

" _I can give you power."_

He rolls off the bed in a panic and scrambles to grab something, _anything._ He's disappointed when his search comes up empty. No weapons. Nothing to defend himself with. Not that it will make a difference with how skewed his perception is. Everything is spinning again.

"Who's there?" He asks, his voice weak and still foreign to his ears.

" _Unimaginable power. Greater than you've ever known."_

"Who are you?" It sounds like the demon again. The sound of its voice is too dark and distinct to forget.

" _Play…"_

"W-What?" The tone is softer than usual, but still demon-like.

" _PLAY!"_

A sharp piano chord rips into his ears and he wants to scream, _wants_ the world to roll off the record player he sees in his head. He needs everything to _stop._

A flash of green catches his eye—like back at the factory—reflecting off his mirror. He follows it, curious to know why everything is so quiet now. The piano has faded away and the demon's voice is mute. He doesn't remember ever hearing them stop.

" _Shane...you gotta remember."_

He looks at his reflection, puzzled. Green eyes and short ash-blonde hair. Where's the murky brown? The tasteless portrait without a drop of extraordinary? Where is _he?_ This isn't him.

" _I know who I am."_

" _Do you?"_

He presses his palm against the mirror, tracing the stranger staring back at him. This isn't real because it isn't him. He knows who he is, he really does. Why doesn't anybody believe him?

" _A sound soul dwells within a sound mind, and a sound body."_

He's not sound, but he knows what kind of person he is.

The image, strangely clearer than what he's used to, shifts back to the reality he's familiar with. Muddy brown hair and eyes, the reflection blurring at the edges. Just like what he's always known.

"Ah, that's better."

He promptly tips over on his side as his world rolls off the record player and passes out.

* * *

As always, thank you for reading and reviews would be mighty helpful.


	2. the girl who strives to save her family

So yes, I've sort of revamped this story. Hopefully, it treats you well. Remember, reviews feed the hungry writer. Enjoy!

* * *

 **the girl who strives to save her family**

* * *

Not even the Vegas underground sewers can keep her anger quiet and contained.

She strikes the table with her fist, promptly snapping it in two. She had been so close. A hair off from where her father stood in chains, she just knows it! She promised herself that she'd save him. Instead she was ordered and forced to retreat back to base, but not without a parting gift carved into the metal.

 _Wait for me, Daddy. I'm coming._

 _-Your Little Star_

This time she fists the air with a huff. She almost misses the table so that she can snap it in half again.

"Aya," a boy says, carefully. He sits in the chair next to her, feigning having his arms crossed on the table that no longer exists. His blonde bangs shroud his sharp, blue eyes that cut deeply into her own. She sticks her tongue out at him.

"Look, I know you're bummed—"

"Shut up, Trenton," she snaps, but he continues.

"But think about it this way. Now we have an idea of where the witch is keeping your Dad. That was the point of the mission, remember? It's progress."

Aya frowns. It's hardly progress, she thinks, knowing her father lies in chains in the heart of the witch's territory: _Death City_. It feels more like someone just slapped her and spit in her face.

"You gotta lighten up, Aya," he says, leaning toward her ear. "All this brooding is going to give you wrinkles."

She pops him in the shoulder and he yelps, nearly falling out of his chair.

"I was just kidding! Geez." He rubs his shoulder like a kicked puppy, lip quivering and eyes faking tears. Aya almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

Suddenly, a door swings open. "I see you're back so soon," a man says, grinning from ear to ear with pointed teeth. At the sound of his voice, Aya snaps to attention and Trenton follows suit. The man chuckles. "At ease, soldiers. What the hell did I do to deserve that?"

"You're kinda the Last Death Scythe, sir," Trenton quips, and Aya shoots him a dark look. He shrugs back.

"Oh, right. Sometimes I forget." For a second the man looks sullen, but he quickly resets his grin. "So, this whole 'up at attention' thing is cool and all, but it's not necessary. Last I checked we aren't pulling rank here."

Trenton slumps back into his chair, sighing, and Aya shoots him another dark look. At that, he counters, "What?" She rolls her eyes and leaves him be. Trenton then squirms in his seat.

"So?"

Aya perks up. "Yes, Sensei?"

The Death Scythe blinks, confused, and shakes his head. "First off, it's Soul. Not the Last Death Scythe, not Sensei, just Soul."

Aya bites the inside of her cheek. "Right," she answers, but considering all he and Maka-Sensei had done for her, having had a hand in raising her as much as her mother and father, so it'll be an interesting adjustment.

Soul nods. "So how'd the 'secret' mission go?" he asks, and she deflates.

Trenton speaks up before she can. "The witch has him at Ground Zero, sir. There wasn't much we could do."

Aya hangs her head and clenches her fists. She feels completely and utterly useless. She calls herself a warrior, a star warrior, but she's powerless when it comes to saving her father. The resistance can talk all they want about her way around a bow—at this brief thought, she glances at Trenton, her weapon, before quickly looking away—but she's not strong enough to storm the witch's castle. That much, she knows. And it kills her to admit it.

"Hey, relax. You're building enough steam to cook us alive in here." A hand grasps her shoulder and she blinks away her thoughts and looks up, getting lost in the red of his eyes. He grins. "We're going to get your Dad back, OK? You have my word."

The resolve in his eyes are but a fraction of what Maka-Sensei can muster up, but it all means the same to her. Aya wipes the tears away before they can surface and nods. "OK, Se—" she stutters, and tries, "Soul. I believe you."

Soul pats her head and she squirms underneath his touch. "That's it. Now, sit back and let the grown-ups have a crack at it. You've done good work. Unapproved work, but good work. But let's try to keep the reckless, impromptu missions to a minimum, all right?"

Aya is about to protest, but Soul is already out the door, waving his goodbye's as he goes. "Stay cool, Aya. And take better care of tables. Hard to come by these days," he says over his shoulder, and Aya is floored.

"Are we listening this time?" Trenton asks, carefully, just a minute after Soul is out of earshot. Aya shoots him yet another dark look, and he groans. "Of course. Why do I even bother asking?"

At that, for the first time in a long time, Aya Star-Nakatsukasa smiles.

* * *

"Aya, chew, don't inhale your food. And please, eat with your mouth closed."

Aya stops and blushes from her side of the dinner table, caught red-handed and now staring down the barrel of her mother's sharp, chiding gaze.

"Don't you know, Nakatsukasa-Sensei? That's how she always eats," Trenton says, smirking. Aya flicks a meatball at him. The candid "Aya!" is well worth the trouble as she watches it roll down his nose and into his lap.

"Use your manners, Aya," her mother tries, but it's in vain. No matter how much Aya may take after Tsubaki in her looks, she is her father's daughter through and through. Tsubaki knows this. It's as clear as day. Must make it that much harder knowing Aya's father is wasting away in some kind of witch's dungeon.

"Yes, Mom," she pouts.

"Now, apologize."

Aya gawks. "For what?"

"You know what I'm talking about, young lady."

Aya scowls and cranes her neck in Trenton's direction. He looks snug as a bug. She wants to wipe that grin off his face with her fist.

"I'm waiting," he says in a sing-song voice.

"Ass," she gripes.

"Aya!"

She cringes. "I'm sorry, OK?"

"Apology accepted," he replies too cheerfully, and her mother smiles. He mouths _even if it was half-assed_ to her when her mother isn't looking, and she stabs her last meatball. From the way he suddenly stares down at his plate, she knows he got the message.

"So how has resonance training been, you two?" her mother asks, and they both start to squirm in their seats. It's a loaded question. Her mother knows Maka-Sensei has been gone for about a month now, so there's no one to help guide them. It's obvious She's trying to pry into their little... _secret_ missions. If her mother knew she had been in Death City, right where her father was last said to be before he was captured, Aya would be grounded for life. Her mother would lock her away in her room and throw out the key. All to make sure she couldn't set foot there ever again.

She's about to answer, piecing together the perfect story of how she and Trenton managed to carry on a steady resonance for a full minute, but instead, she blurts, "I know where Dad is."

Trenton stares at her, surprised, while her mother stays quiet. She continues to eat, but Aya can see how the fork shakes in her hand.

"I know," is all her mother says in return and Aya doesn't know how to answer. There's nothing left to say. So she eats as ravenous as her father would, and her mother doesn't say another word about her etiquette or her father for the rest of the night.

* * *

Aya punches dummy after dummy, venting her frustrations the only way she knows how. She runs the obstacle course and blasts through enemy lines like a roaring hurricane. She ignores the people that tell her she would've been killed taking the enemy head on like that, and runs the course again and again. Her legs are ready to give out, but she refuses to quit. Her knuckles are cracked and bleeding, but she just ties them up with cloth and calls it an easy fix.

 _That'a girl_ , she hears him say, just before he'd properly chastise her for her carelessness. He'd then take her aside and convince her to take a break and have a bite to eat with him to get back her strength.

Too bad he isn't here now to stop her.

She finally collapses after an automated dummy hits her in the stomach. Worn down to the bone, she wasn't fast enough to dodge it. So, she lies there, exhausted, struggling to catch her breath. She then covers her eyes so nobody can see her cry.

"Daddy," Aya murmurs. Her voice cracks. She almost can't piece together his goofy, loving smile in her memory after six months apart. It's been so long, and he's slowly drifting away from her, just out of her reach. She lifts her arm, reaching for the stars, but knows she's bound to come up empty. A hand suddenly grabs her's and she gasps.

"You're really predictable, y'know that?"

Aya bites her lip and tries to wipe away her tears. "S-Shut up, Trenton."

He pulls her up against her will to stay on the ground and wallow. "Why didn't you call me?"

She blinks, confused and unsure of what to say.

He pinks and grumbles, "I'm your weapon, Aya. We're supposed to be a team. I've got your back, remember? So if you decide you're going to tear up an obstacle course until your black and blue like an idiot, great. But I want to be by your side when you do. You got that?"

Aya takes time to process his words, unraveling the devotion he weaved into each syllable, and when she smiles for the second time in six months, she can finally see her father's goofy smile, clear as day.

"So, are you ready?" she asks, grinning.

"What? Are you kidding me? You look like hell. We're headed to the infirmary."

She deflates. "But you said," she says, trailing off.

"I meant it, OK. But not right now. My Death, just look at yourself, Aya. You look like somebody beat you to a pulp. I mean, look at your face. It's all swelled up and gross."

"Gee, thanks."

"Well, you always said you liked my honesty."

She perks up, her memory running astray. When they first met as kids, under the pretenses of him being the abandoned no-good son of the traitor Justin Law, she called him trash. In return, he called her a half pint, a spoiled brat and Daddy's little girl. No one had had the guts to talk to her like that before, especially not with her father at her beck and call. So, despite wanting to punch his lights out at that time, she learned to like him. Respect him, even, for his brash honesty. Even if he could be an asshole sometimes.

"Shut up."

"You know that'll never happen, right?"

"I know. But I'll keep saying it in case you do."

Trenton smiles and tugs her forward. "That'll be the day."

"Looking forward to it," Aya says, grinning, and not much is said after that until they reach the infirmary. Then, there's nothing but the "Ouch!", "Stay still!" and "Aya, what the hell did you do to yourself?" being tossed between them.

"Nothing!" she hisses.

"Bullshit!"

All is normal again, for now.

Unbeknownst to them, a meeting is planned and set to convene a week later to decide her father's fate. When they come together and talk for hours upon hours, taking sides and fighting tooth and nail to have their voices heard, their verdict is something no one expected. It catches everyone off guard. The vote is unanimous and unwavering. Suddenly, the promise the Last Death Scythe made with Aya falls on deaf ears.

"It's done," says a man shrouded in a long, black cloak in an even tone. "BlackStar is no longer our concern. We can't waste what resources we have left to storm Death City. Surely you understand."

Tsubaki nods, her eyes cast downward. "I do."

The meeting adjourns, and sharp, star eyes, watching, wither with tears and vanish into the night.

* * *

When she wakes him in the middle of night, standing in his doorway in what her father would call assassin's clothes plus a quiver, Trenton tries his best to stand tall. Even if he sports a nasty case of bedhead and wears only a sleep shirt and boxers.

"What?" he asks, carefully. He doesn't want to egg her on. Never wants to. She has enough fire in her soul to burn him to a crisp.

"Are you ready?"

"No," he deadpans.

"I'm saving my father with or without you. I just thought, after last week, I'd...ask you this time. You have my back, right?"

He slowly starts to crumble at her feet. This, he thinks, is why Death Scythe calls him whipped behind his back. Not like he's one to talk, but some of what he says ring true. He's wrapped around this girl's finger whether he likes it or not.

"Yes," he says, rubbing the sweat from his forehead. "But stop and think about this. Please? Humor me."

Aya crosses her arms and purses her lips. "I've thought about it," she says.

"Like, really thought about it?" he tries, teetering on the edge of going along with her insanity. He wants to tie her to a chair so she can't leave but lord knows he doesn't have the balls to do that. He'll follow her, instead. Like a good dog on his master's leash.

"Yes. Now are you coming or not?"

Trenton sighs and turns away from her, letting his resolve sink into the pit of his stomach. There, it'll dissolve and hopefully come back up in her favor. _Not_ as indigestion. He walks over to his dresser and starts pulling out clothes.

"Fine. I'm coming. Just, give me a minute, will ya?"

Trenton catches her smile and, despite her proposal to march into enemy territory without so much as a plan or backup, he smiles back. They could die, but here _he_ is, smiling and offering his life to walk beside her into hell. Man, he really is whipped.

"Stars, huh?" is all she says from the doorway, and he stops to look at her, puzzled.

"What?"

He follows her eyes, looking down, and blushes. Yes, he wears stars over boring plaid boxers. Sue him. He works on his jeans quickly, leaving his half-off, half-on shirt behind. Skinny jeans are a bad choice, he thinks too late, as he wrestles to get them on. Aya laughs from the doorway and he wishes to curl up in a ball and die.

A few minutes later, after setting his beanie in place, he's ready to go.

"Ready," he says, still reeling from embarrassment.

"Ready," she says back to him, holding out her hand. When he transforms from awkward boy to sleek, curved metal in her hands, it feels natural. She plucks his bowstring, _for good luck_ , she says, and tucks him inside her warm, cozy quiver. He's not keen to stealth, so staying tucked away in weapon form and leaving the rest up to his meister is all he can do.

"You're sure about this?" he asks, reflecting off the metal.

"Nobody else is doing anything so it's up to us," she replies, resolve melting into her voice.

"I can list a lot of people that would tell us not to do this."

"Well, those same people decided that saving my father was not in the resistance's best interest today, so to hell with them."

"Your Mom?" he whispers, almost hoping she doesn't hear him. Though he can feel her soul rattle with his question.

"She sided with them."

Aya is suddenly quiet and focused, preparing herself to dart down the nearest sewer line to start their mission. Their destination: _Death City_. And most likely the witch, as cruel as she is said to be, has her father, BlackStar, locked within the old academy walls. Nobody from the resistance had set foot in the academy in _ten_ years. Their mission seems next to impossible and borderline suicidal.

"Aya, I don't know if we should do this," he says. Aya remains silent, ready to bound forward.

When a hand hits the back of her neck, hard, he isn't fast enough to warn her, or catch her when she falls.

* * *

Only one more "kiddo" to meet. _Hint, hint._ Please review to fuel my muse! Feedback is much appreciated!


	3. the boy with big shoes to fill

Now it's finally time to meet the young, grim reaper spawn. Also, other characters who you'll surely recognize. Enjoy!

* * *

 **the boy with big shoes to fill**

* * *

Inside a run-down English motel, hidden just outside of London in the middle of nowhere, young Mortimer stares at his reflection in the mirror, holding a bottle of white hair dye in his hand.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , if he dyes stripes in his hair, his father will start taking him seriously. Start treating him like a god, an _heir._ Not some _boy_ that needs protecting all the time. Maybe then they'll see each other more and he'll be allowed back in the states, back _home_ where he belongs.

"Mort, come out of the bathroom with your hands up, and the hair dye on the sink."

He yelps when the door swings open and, instead of on the sink, the dye falls on the floor and breaks open. White dye splatters at his feet and he cringes. He had risked a lot going into to London to find some, and now here it is, his freedom, nothing but a puddle at his feet.

Liz Thompson, more bodyguard than aunt, stands in the doorway, shaking her head. "Didn't I tell you to put it on the sink?"

"I-I could have been naked, you know," he says. He tries to fight the accent he's picked up but it's no use. Six years in Europe is hard to shake. He's told it makes him sound distinguished, gentlemanly even, for a 12 year old boy. Personally, he thinks it only punctuates how long his father has kept him sheltered here.

"Oh, please. I've seen it all, Mort," she says, and he blushes. "Besides, the shower isn't running and you didn't flush. It's obvious that you never planned to drop your pants." She stops to look down at the dye and frowns. "Should I ask?"

"No."

"All right, then." She eases him out of the bathroom, slipping off his socks as he goes, and starts scrubbing the bathroom floor with a rag.

In the beginning, she'd pry into his business relentlessly. A gossip, if you will. But after years of parading around Europe dodging people his father deemed too _sketchy_ to be in the same vicinity as his son, a silent, under-the-table kind of bond started to form. A bond that doesn't ask questions.

"Dying your hair won't change anything. You don't need the lines of Sanzu to make you stronger. You're a good kid, Mortimer. You don't need to prove anything to anybody. Especially not your father."

Until now, apparently.

"A god," he mumbles. "I'm supposed to be a god, Liz. But look at me. I'm bloody useless!"

Mortimer slams his tiny, pale, useless fist on his nightstand. The resounding thud doesn't satisfy him like he had hoped. He tenses and stares down at his lap, waiting. Waiting for Liz to reprimand him for his outburst. A prince, as some may call him, can't let his emotions get the better of him. A prince remains calm and collected even in the worst of times, as he's witnessed from his father in the wake of losing Death City and the academy.

Calm and collected, working fine under pressure and refusing to show any sign of weakness. Though, the look on his father's face after the witch took their home right from under their noses is haunting and burned into Mortimer's memory. Only a toddler back then, but he understood. He was old enough to know pain when he saw it. And his father felt such immense pain that day, that that's all Mortimer ever sees in him anymore. _Loss. Disappointment. Failure._

He thinks he's no better in his father's eyes. Just a reflection of another mistake. A really, really _big_ mistake.

When Liz starts to speak, she doesn't snap at him like he expects. "Y'know, back when your father was around your age, he tried to dye his hair all black. He _hated_ the stripes. Bitched about it ruining his precious _symmetry_."

He perks up. "He tried to get rid of the lines of Sanzu?"

"Yes. For the sake of symmetry. It's not like he knew back then what they meant, but still. I've never seen someone hate something so petty that much." Liz stops to sigh. "Your Dad is really something else, Mort, let me tell ya."

"He's a death god," he blurts. "He can't be anything but extraordinary." _Unlike him,_ he thinks.

"I guess you're right," she says, tossing the rag off to the side. "But he's more human than you think. Also," she raises a finger and pokes his chest, hard, as if to punctuate her point. "You're pretty extraordinary too, y'know. Even if you can't see it. But I can. I always have."

Mortimer sits on the corner of his bed, star struck, with her finger still pressed against his chest. He's voiceless and still. What is there left to say? " _You're wrong"_ or " _You must be blind"?_ He chooses to stay quiet instead. She'll simply deny him so there's no use in trying.

Liz pats his hip suddenly, breaking him out of his reverie. "Bedtime, kiddo. You need your rest. I can tell when you're thinking too hard in that big head of yours. Cut it out and catch some Z's."

Mortimer doesn't speak, he only nods. He silently changes into his pajamas and gets settled in bed with no fuss. When he is about to close his eyes, he notices Liz in the bathroom writing on the mirror. She catches his wandering eyes, smiles, and closes the door.

Before he drifts off to sleep he wonders who she could be talking to at this hour. Even when deep down he knows exactly who is on the other side of that mirror.

It hurts. A lot. But he bites his lip and bears it because that's what princes do. They look the other way when they're told.

* * *

Mortimer decides to tackle pain head on in a meadow surrounded by flowers not even a week after Liz spoke with his father in secret.

When he takes a blow to the gut, everything looks fuzzy and his stomach erupts underneath his skin. His very soul rattles in its cage and pulsates. This pain is real. Foreign, but oh so very real and excruciating. He falls flat on his back and holds his stomach, gasping for air.

"Patty, take it easy. You're not supposed to break him," Liz says, casually. As if his pain doesn't concern her as much as she lets on. _Some bodyguard,_ he thinks.

Patty laughs and flings Liz's weapon form in the air, clasping her hands behind her back and grinning from ear to ear. "Sorry, sis. Just testing him. He's not doing very well, is he?"

Liz transforms back, sticking the landing right in front of him. "Not at all."

Mortimer scowls and struggles to get back on his feet. "N-Not done yet," he grits out. He doesn't plan on giving up so easily. His father said that he needed to learn how to defend himself, _to stay alive,_ so he will not disappoint.

Liz sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "If that had been a real gun, you'd be dead. Just like that. No redos. You got to get out of your head, Mort. You think and you think and you think and you wind up dead."

"I'm trying to come up with the best strategy," he counters. "Strategy wins fights."

"Strategy is good and all," she says, shaking her head. "But you gotta think fast on your feet. Don't think too much and just act on instinct. You have that, don't you?"

"Uh, yes."

"Then use that." She jumps back in a flash of pink and, before he has a chance to steady himself, Patty is back on the assault.

A sharp cry escapes him as he pivots to the right, just barely missing Patty's attack. Relief overtakes him. Until he realizes he doesn't have time to recover or think about his next move because she's already on top of him again. He dodges and dodges and dodges. Then he takes hit after hit after hit, embracing the pain with each blow. He refuses to give up.

"You're thinking too loud, Mortimer," Liz taunts, face reflecting off of the gun's barrel. "Kinda hard to keep pace with us with all that noise in your head, huh?"

"Shut up!" He tries to land a kick to her left side, but Patty steps out of his reach at the last second. He's left wide open, point blank, in the aftermath. Then the barrel twists and presses hard into his gut. He doesn't have time to scream stop, to tell them that's enough, _he's had enough!_

Patty pulls the trigger and sets his soul ablaze.

This time he stays on the ground longer, and the pain seems to echo in his chest. Breathing is suddenly much more difficult than he remembers.

"Ah, shit."

"Did I push him too hard, sis?"

They stand over him and look more like blobs than people. When they speak, he hears nothing. The ringing in his ears is too shrill and overwhelming to make out anything. They hit him too hard. Their close range soul attack was too much for his body to handle and he cracked. His weak, useless body fell apart under the pressure.

 _Loss. Disappointment. Failure._ So this is how his father felt. No, this is how his father _will_ feel once he finds out his pathetic son passed out during a simple sparring lesson. Liz and Patty were holding back, too. He doesn't have any excuses.

"Hey, Mort," a voice says, twinging his ears. It cuts through the sharp ringing, but hurts just as much to listen to. "You're going to be fine. Hang in there for me, OK?"

As if on command, his soul flickers out and he loses consciousness.

* * *

When Mortimer wakes up he sees someone he hasn't seen in years, someone high on his father's totem pole and gifted with the inner workings of the soul.

"Good to see that you're finally awake, Mortimer," she says, a smile tugging at her lips. "Look at you. You've really grown since I last saw you."

He sits up abruptly and bites back a wince, blurting, "Maka?" She quickly shushes him and urges him to lie back down before he hurts himself. Begrudgingly, he complies, but not before asking, "What are you doing here?

"Your father has me all over the place these days," she says, sighing. Then, she smiles once more. "I thought I'd stop by for a bit and see how you're doing. I didn't expect for you to be knocked unconscious, of course."

Mortimer blushes and scratches his head. Neither did he, in all honesty. Sparring practice didn't go as he hoped. Instead he winds up in bed, sore, and with a broken ego. Passing out in the middle of a fight? How much more pathetic can he get.

"Your soul looks like its short on confidence right now. Is that what's eating at you?"

Mortimer gawks at her, surprised, and crosses his arms over his chest. Sometimes he forgets how naturally soul perception comes to Maka, to the point where she can look straight through you even during casual conversation. No matter how hard he tries to keep his soul to himself, he can't keep it hidden from Maka. No one can. It's said that she had once searched for and targeted a soul on the moon with her enhanced soul perception. With all that in mind, he can't afford to underestimate her abilities.

Still, he tries, "I… I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liz told me about the hair dye incident."

He deflates and hangs his head. Is nothing in his life allowed to be private?

"You shouldn't worry too much about your abilities. You've got a lot of potential from where I'm standing. It's just a matter of finding a way to tap into it, that's all," she says, and her confidence in his potential raises his spirits a bit. Just enough to have him think he's not a lost cause after all.

"You think so?"

"I do."

Maka grins and ruffles his hair, eliciting a cry from him and a ripe blush to spread across his cheeks. She, like everyone else, treats him like the young boy who left the ruins of Death City six years ago with tears streaming down his face and one arm carrying a stuffed Cerberus toy. But he's not that little boy anymore. He refuses to be.

"Now, get some rest. Liz says you're not skipping out on training tomorrow." Maka looks up and addresses his otherwise incognito bodyguard from across the room. The way their eyes meet suggest another secret conversation Mortimer can't be apart of. He frowns. Just another way to say that he's not ready, that he's still the crying little boy from the old days. But he has plans to prove them wrong.

"Ok, I will. I don't plan on being knocked unconscious again," he says, and Maka smiles brightly back at him.

"I know."

She leaves his bedside and taps Liz's shoulder, prompting her into the bathroom and closing the door. The usual routine. Only this time he wants apart of their conversation. Instead of closing his eyes, he puts all of his focus into eavesdropping. After a moment, their voices start to refocus in his head, becoming clearer and more precise. No more secrets, he thinks.

"Six months already?" he hears Liz say with some surprise lacing her tone.

"Yes. The witch has BlackStar completely immobilized in Death City. To make matters worse I just got word from Kid that the resistance has no intentions of going after him. Those were his orders."

"Poor Tsubaki. And what about Aya?"

"The last I heard she tried to go to Death City on her own. Of course, she was stopped but still. I can't imagine what she must be feeling right now."

"That's awful. Damn, I feel so out of the loop."

"You're tasked with keeping Mortimer safe. Don't be so hard on yourself." At that, Mortimer feels a pang of guilt wrack his soul. "Thanks to you, he's safe and growing up to be a fine young man. That's on you, you know. Don't forget that."

"I guess you're right."

There's a sharp pause. After a minute, Mortimer thinks the conversation is over until…

"So," Liz says, breaking the sad tone she had earlier. "You tell him yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"Maka, you're kidding. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Spill the beans."

"No… I haven't said anything to him."

There's a loud shriek that almost compels Mortimer to jump out of bed and spring into action. That is, until…

"Makaaaa," Liz whines. "You're ridiculous. How can you not tell him that you're pregnant? Death, I want to see the look on his face when you—"

"Stop it!"

Maka's voice sounds angry, but defeated, which is a tone Mortimer isn't familiar with coming from her. It's enough to fizzle out Liz's excitement and his surprise over the news. Maka Albarn, pregnant? He can hardly believe it.

"Hey, easy. Think about the baby."

"I told you that in confidence," Maka hisses, and Mort imagines Liz wilting under her most likely sharp, unforgiving green eyes.

"I'm sorry. Just got worked up, that's all. But really, why haven't you told him?"

"I don't want to give his hopes up, all right?" he hears Maka blurt, and it sounds exhausted and hurt. "Things like this never work out for us. Never."

"Don't talk like that. This is your chance at a fresh start. Put the past in the past. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

He hears Maka take a long, shaky breath before saying, "I'll tell him if the baby lasts another month."

"That's cruel, Maka."

"This world is cruel." A pause. "Anyway, I'm off to Japan to find Kim. Reports say she's somewhere in Tokyo, and I need to speak with her. She might know something about our witch."

"Maka, she ran when Death City fell. She could be hiding something. You can't confront her by yourself."

The door opens and Mortimer tenses and feigns sleep as Maka storms out. "But I am. You just make sure Mort stays safe and trains hard. We don't want the witch to get her hands on him."

"Right," Liz replies, sighing. "You stay safe, too. And for Death's sake, tell Soul. He deserves to know."

"I'll… think about it."

And like that, Maka Albarn is gone.

"How much of that did you hear?"

Mortimer startles and opens his eyes, coming face to face with his bodyguard's cold blue eyes. Eyes much like his, now that he thinks about it. His father had made sure to pay tribute to his loyal weapons in his creation, after all.

"A lot," he says, wearing his guilt upon his sleeves.

Liz sighs. "Now you should understand the stakes. The witch would love to get her hands on you. And she already has us all running around in circles with no way of fighting back."

"Is Maka going to be all right?" he asks, because he understands the gravity of the situation, but he doesn't understand what Maka's motives are. What compels her to fight, and to keep her pregnancy a secret, he wonders.

"I don't know," is all Liz says, and the conversation is cut short before he can poke and prod for more details. Instead, she changes the subject.

"Tomorrow I'm going to put you through hell. Think you can handle it?"

He nods, because he's tired of wasting away on the outskirts of the battlefield. He wants to fight alongside his father and Maka. He wants to win back Death City and take the pain out of father's eyes.

 _A tall order,_ he thinks. But nothing will stand in his way. It's time to erase that little boy, crying and squeezing his little Cerberus, once and for all.

* * *

Laughing, Mortimer hears laughing echoes circle him and taunt him from the darkness. His throat is dry and scratchy, his skin rubbed raw, and his head is swimming in circles. He can't remember how he got here, who brought him here, or even what day it is. Is this some test from Liz? His father? He doesn't have the slightest idea.

"Rise and shine, pretty boy," a voice says, and the darkness surrounding him is lifted. Mortimer blinks once he realizes that darkness he's known is only a black bag. He looks around, disoriented, and sees that he's in the dead center of a group of shrouded figures dressed in all black.

"What's going on?" he asks. No one answers, but a figure steps forward and stands toe to toe with him. "Who are you?" he tries, his voice still reeling from disuse.

The figure takes off their mask and he gasps in surprise. A girl, and she's no older than him!

"My name is Sahar. Welcome back to the states, little reaper."

* * *

Things are heating up fast! As always, I humbly ask that you review. I'll take anything! And reviews help fuel the muse, so there's also that. Until next time!


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